I am despatching the ROU Learned Response, the LOU New Toy and the GOU Questionable Ethics in string formation, ROU leading, to maximum reach and make rendezvous, the LOU to 50 per cent and the GOU 12.5 per cent distance, adjusting to hold at those increments.

∞

xLOU Caconym

oMSV Pressure Drop

Oh fuck, now it’s making pretty patterns.

The/My squadron of six Liseiden ships, led by myself on the pride of our fleet, the Collective Purposes vessel and flagship Gellemtyan-Asool-Anafawaya, fell (/ruthlessly*) upon the pitiful/limping/struggling/fearsome* Ronte fleet with resolute professionalism/exemplary courage/heavy hearts**, our jaws/mouthparts forced [n.b.: awkward/over-species-specific in translation; suggest restructure using “given no choice” or equivalent] by the [?]/ responded to the Ronte fleet’s outrageous* provocations/unprovoked aggression**/aggressive intransigence with the only language they understand.**

*[n.b.: word choice? potentially hoary]

**[n.b.: phrase choice? potentially clichéd]

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal Ny-Xandabo Tyun accepted the call in his private cabin. It was from his Sensors/Targeting officer. He had asked not to be disturbed unless something urgent came up. “What?” he said with deliberate gruffness, though secretly he was glad of the interruption. He was finding writing what he hoped would turn into one of the more exciting parts of his memoirs rather more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Sir, we have the Ronte fleet in sight at extended scanner range; thirteen targets.”

“Thirteen. So the Culture ship is still with them.”

“Appears so, sir.”

“Are they aware of us?”

“Doubtful, sir.”

“I’d prefer a percentage applied to that doubt, officer.”

“Sir. Ninety per cent certain they haven’t detected us, sir.”

“That’s better.”

“Also, sir, Comms coming on line with a signal from the Culture GSV Empiricist. Shall I—?”

“Yes. Comms, what are they saying?”

“There’s quite a lot of it, sir; I’ve patched it through. But it boils down to them telling us not to attack the Ronte.”

“I bet it does. I’ll take a look shortly. You have followed my earlier orders and not acknowledged?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. S/T?”

“Sir,” the Sensors/Targeting officer said.

“How long until we have the Ronte fleet in range?”

“A fraction over two hours at current velocities and courses, sir.”

“Two hours? I thought we expected to have them in range forty minutes after contact.”

“Their drive signatures are messier than anticipated, sir, plus the Culture ship with them appears to be hurrying them on; hard to tell from this far away – only about fifteen per cent certain – but it looks like it’s encased them in its own field enclosure, highly extended, and is acting like a sort of high-speed tug.”

“I see. Engineering?”

“Sir?”

“Can you give us a little more power?”

“Negative, sir. Another step-up from here would imply a seventy per cent chance of serious engine malfunction, probably in one or both of the two Jubunde-class ships.”

“Hmm. Very well. Continue to close at current velocity. Combat?”